


After All This Time (Buried Love)

by JustAMessAtThisPoint



Category: Supergirl (TV 2015)
Genre: Based on a Tumblr Post, F/F, Lena Luthor Needs a Hug, Love Letters, Vampire!Lena, immortal!kara
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-05
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-18 09:55:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29856354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustAMessAtThisPoint/pseuds/JustAMessAtThisPoint
Summary: And in some historical news today a local farmer has unearthed a chest thought to be over 200 years old in the woodland surrounding his property. The chest is said to contain multiple artefacts including over twenty letters written and dated between the years 1830-1850. As well as a monogrammed handkerchief and a necklace whose origin is yet to be placed by local historians. The chest upon discovery was handed over to museum officials and we’re told it will be available for viewing in an upcoming showcase at Midvale museum within the next few weeks.orLena Luthor learns the hard way that burying her feelings isn't always the most effective way to cope with things.
Relationships: Kara Danvers/Lena Luthor
Comments: 8
Kudos: 251





	After All This Time (Buried Love)

_ And in some historical news today a local farmer has unearthed a chest thought to be over 200 years old in the woodland surrounding his property. The chest is said to contain multiple artefacts including over twenty letters written and dated between the years 1830-1850. As well as a monogrammed handkerchief and a necklace whose origin is yet to be placed by local historians. The chest upon discovery was handed over to museum officials and we’re told it will be available for viewing in an upcoming showcase at Midvale museum within the next few weeks. _

It’s on a cool, crisp night that the shadow returns to Midvale. Lurking through, hooded in a darkness that steals the light from the street lamps as she passes by. The bar patrons fall to silence as she enters, asking for a room as the light above the counter flickers on and off. A stark white hand extends from the cloaked black mass, dropping money in exchange for a key that jingles as it lands. The figure ascends the stairs as a cloud envelopes the onlookers, glassing their eyes and clearing their minds. The woman is forgotten before she completes the staircase. 

Lena Luthor had never planned to set foot in this damned country town ever again, but in light of recent discoveries that have apparently been made, she thought of her return more an act of self preservation than of nostalgia.

Midvale had changed very little over the decades, a human would try to call it "preserving the heritage" but Lena would refer to it as the halting of progress, and extremely flammable. In the ever changing landscape of the world at large, very few things that stay the same survive. Adaption is the trait of survivors. 

Perhaps a good first step might be as simple as a couple coats of paint. Lena winces as the wooden bannister of the bed and breakfast's balcony flakes off in her hands. Wood sagging with age and water damage.

Her movement stays to the shadows as she makes her way down main street. Avoiding the spotlights of the street lamps, appearing as a fleeting silhouette to the stragglers stumbling home from the bar.

Under the cover of night she approaches the museum, the welcome signs flying as banners above her head from the buildings guttering. Bright colours serve to create two giant invitations in the twilight, Lena takes the technicality with a fang-filled smile. Always thankful for a loophole in ancient laws.

She finds the front door locked as expected, thinking better of breaking the lock, she instead looks for other modes of entry. Property damage should be kept to a minimum, she may be undead but she's not heartless. Besides, the lobby is far more likely to contain witnesses. 

The roof seems to hold far more opportunity as she runs light-footed across the tiling. Feeling out for the darkest point, she cloaks herself in the night, melting herself through the physical boundaries until she feels herself within the museum walls.

Keeping to the ceiling, she crawls along the rafters. Senses on high alert, feeling out for anything warmblooded thing that might be capable of alerting security. Finding nothing she drops, silent, to the floor. 

The search begins for her chest, sweeping in and out of rooms seeking a half built exhibit or a back room. Anywhere a human might be stupid enough to leave an artefact several hundred years old.

She discovers it open and exposed in a display behind glass west of the lobby. A cardboard sign hanging above it reading ' _ Love through the ages, display 4 _ ' at least Lena can be comforted by the clear high budget at work. The other displays in the room seem to be far more completed, artistically laid out and labelled. It seems they will be showing her belongings alongside samples of letters written by soldiers during several of this modern world's great wars. 

Her beloved chest sits behind some form of plexiglass designed to keep children and their grubby little hand from touching the valuables. Her letters have been opened, the wax seals broken, her most personal thoughts and feelings violated and put on display for anyone in this damned town to read. She presses her hand to the glass, peering in at her own possessions with a fury she hasn't experienced in many years.

Her ears prick to a new disturbance, movement in the corridor. A beam of a flashlight passes the doorway as several sets of footsteps close in on Lena's location. No longer alone, she dives for the darkest corner wrapping herself in the safety of the shadows once more.

There won’t be a chance to retrieve her chest tonight. 

The dawn brings with it further nuisance, Lena regretting her choice to shack herself up within the town's bed and breakfast for the duration of her stay. She had made the mistake of revealing the unfortunate fact that she was awake to an overly cheery manager, boasting her "truly lovely breakfast spread" and attempting to usher her downstairs. She'd ended that interaction with a swift locked door and a strategically placed ' _ do not disturb _ ' sign. She spends the reclaimed hours of her morning reinforcing the sheer drapes of the eastern facing windows with the moth-eaten blanket she was able to scavenge from the deepest part of the clearly second hand wardrobe. It's disturbingly stained and gives off an odour the Lena would care not to describe. But at least it's effective in blocking the light. Whilst the sun won't kill her, she could do with avoiding the rather nasty burns that often partner with accidental exposure.

Avoiding being seen as much as possible she stays in the seclusion of her room until evening. Minimising her interaction with chatty townsfolk will be a key factor to her anonymity during this trip. No idea who could still be lurking on the outskirts, no need to kickstart any rumour mills, no need to gain any attention from old friends. 

So she sits and waits as she must. Watching as a tiny sun patch that has wormed its way through her blanketed protection, and makes its way across the room with the movement of the sun. she sips at her warm canteen of sheep's blood, thinking belatedly of the farmer, wonders what he believed attacked his flock that night. Sleepless as she reclines and ponders the monstrous possibilities that must have flooded his mind.

The virtue of patience is one corvette by the undead, the act of waiting and watching. But as she lies in wait for her opportunity she realises her window is rapidly closing. If the chest is still in possession of the museum on the exhibit's opening day stealing it back will be a reason for far more talk. What a strange feeling to suddenly be running out of time.

Those letters have already drawn far too much attention, and she must wait until the cover of night when the museum is without witnesses to get her belongings back. And they are her belongings. 200 years shouldn’t make them anyone else’s. Public property can kiss her undead ass. She’s not entirely dead, her ownership of her own things hasn’t somehow expired. The ridiculousness of humans and their morbid need to take things from the past and present them on little pedestals for the public to come gawk at. The constant need for things, for evidence of life, for completing collections and placing things in boxes. what mundane little tendencies. 

It just so happens that those tendencies are currently fucking everything up. And if  _ she _ were to know about any of this. Well, that just wouldn’t do. She’s managed to keep all of this to herself for 200 years and she’ll be damned if a bunch of small town idiots are going to ruin that for her. 

The best case scenario is that she’s simply not here, that’s she moved in from the small town that built up around them, the small town she refused to leave. And she may be in luck, there was no sense of her on Main Street last night. No feel of her in the wind. Lena may have chosen the one decade in which Kara had decided to take a leave from Midvale. 

All of this really wouldn't be nearly as dramatic, if Lena had ever been courageous enough to just talk to her. Instead she poured herself into tens of letters then sealed and buried them to the outside world. Up until a few weeks ago she'd been the only soul to ever read that writing. They had never left their envelopes, they had never been posted. Her feelings had never made it to Kara, never left the dark little hole she'd pity dug for herself. And now they sit ripped upon by a group of strangers who have no care for her history. Just happy to have a new shiny story to exploit to the public.

Two centuries worth of preservation and hiding all unravelled by humans and their ridiculous curiosity. Yes, it is better that she fixes this quickly. Returning her words to their chest and burying it all once more. This time in a far more secluded location, far away from prying eyes.

Lena lifts herself from her bedside brooding, evening approaching in its rapid rainbow of a sunset. She fixes her hair in the mirror. Her reflection still holds a little novelty to her centuries old eyes. What a strike of genius to stop using silver as a reflective device. Such a convenience to be able to see herself after so long. She gives herself a sharp smile and melts herself into the shadow cast by the furniture.

Under the light of the rising moon she snakes her way back to the museum, listening out for anything out of the ordinary as she gently forces her way back inside. This time she knows the exact location. Only there is nothing of hers to find at the love through the ages exhibit. 

Something about seeing the empty space makes her want to scream, she holds it in just barely, clawing into her own hair, consumed by her own rage momentarily. Restraining herself from ripping this building apart from the inside out.

The chemical smell of wet paint burns at her nose, stinking out the room as she exits. Giving herself a moment to clear her mind, airless lungs heaving. With a calmer mind Lena returns from the corridor, no longer consumed by the tunnel vision of her emotions, she can spot the obvious signs of last minute upgrades happening to the exhibit around her. Paint drying and cardboard signs replaced by a typed out plaque neatly placed by the empty glass. At least the staff had the right mind to move the centuries-old objects before they broke out the paint pots. And so for the second time in as many nights, the search begins again. 

It's just her luck that the one room with a human present is the one with her letters in it. She crouches out of the doorway, peering in and assessing her options.

Lena seriously contemplates killing him for quite a while, On one hand it would be so easy and quick to just snap his neck. There would be no witness and nothing they could prove. But on the other hand, a death would draw attention to the museum. Draw attention to the artefacts that were stolen. The fact that the security guard is fast asleep doesn’t help either, the prospect of killing him becoming more and more tempting with each thunderous snore that erupts from his snotty little body. 

The door to the security room is unlocked and ajar, Lena slips in unnoticed by it's occupant. Shuffling herself around the guards reclined desk chair, pausing as he snorts still asleep, drooling onto the pleather. She rolls her eyes and continues past him. She should've just killed him.

Her chest sits atop a filing cabinet, a sore thumb amongst the modern furniture. She swipes it from it's makeshift pedestal, but the wooden box is noticeably lighter than she recalls it being. 

Shit. 

She opens the chest, but all that remains inside of it is the cloth lining of the box. She snaps it shut, growling lowly. 

Of course they would separate them. Of course they would, why would Lena have thought any higher than the clear stupidity of whomever runs this cursed place?

Clearly they know nothing of the problems that face people who play with ancient artefacts, like say a necklace that feeds off the souls of the dead. Lena honestly doesn't have the energy to worry about that part right now, her letters take a personal priority. A member of staff accidentally killing themselves because they don't understand that sometimes they shouldn't touch what isn't theirs is truly not her problem.

This is all taking far too long, the sun will soon be returning. Lena places the chest back where she had found it, without the letters it has very little value. The guard behind her begins to stir in his sleep, Lena turns to watch as the man wakes, alarmed at not being alone in the room. It's as he reaches for his phone that the mist reaches his nose, eyes glazing over at his sharp breath in. That should buy her some time. 

Hypnosis is a limited power, she really shouldn't have done that with how little she's fed in the past couple of days. A shake starts in her fingers, a wave of exhaustion knocks her back into the cabinets with a clash. Lena rights herself slowly, ripping open any draws that she can reach in hopes of finding her precious little pieces of parchment. Desperation forming her only source of energy. The metal bends at her force, so much for leaving a clean scene. It is imperative that she remains unseen, this embarrassing situation is bad enough already. The last thing she needs is to be the focus of small town folks gossiping little tales. Their silly ramblings may fall too close to the wrong types of ears. 

Dawn is close, she's out of time. She makes her exit for the second time in as many nights. Without her chest, her necklace or her letters.

———

Kara makes a point of coming back to Midvale whenever she can, something about the fresh air of the coast and the open air, brings with it a sense of calm that just can't be manufactured by skyscrapers and concrete. 

It’s true that whilst National city has a wonderful sense of movement but nothing can beat the quiet coastal town charm in her book.

She’s worked as a big city journalist for a number of years now so it can be taken as an educated insight when she says. No one gossips more than the people of a small town, and Kara has had her fair share of being the centre of the wrong kind of attention. But as she stands at the centre of the local bar, the epicentre of town storytellers. Looking exactly the same as she has in every visit she’s made in the past 250 years, no one seems to notice.

Much like the homestead atop the hill where she'd dropped her bags, the town bar displays a remarkable lack of change despite the passage of time. Perhaps with the exception of a few layers of dust around the corners. Kara hadn't planned to make an outing of her evening, but something in the air had guided her here, something old and familiar. Warily she nurses her beer. 

The room charges strangely as she leans herself on the bar, the rowdy crowd zoning out with the chill that runs down the spine. A figure moves amongst the shadows.

She’s being watched.

There’s a creak on the stairs leading to the accommodations, a flash of something impossible passes by Kara's peripheral. She starts in its direction, curiosity overwhelming her. A patron behind her drops a tray of drinks, the anguished yell they give at the loss enough to make her turn. Bending to help the man before he drunkenly rips his hands apart on broken glass. By the time she thinks to look again whatever was there is long gone. 

She sips at her drink and lets it go. 

It's the next morning that she visits the museum, fascinated in the perspective small towns take on the passage of time. What moments they deem can stay and what fades out of memory. They seem to have expanded since her last viewing. Banners waving high above the entrance boasting some new love themed exhibit. 

She passes under it without much fanfare, she's never considered herself particularly knowledgeable of the romantic. Love has been a foreign concept to her for multiple lifetimes. 

Crossing the threshold of the entrance makes something buzz at the base of her skull. Kara fiddles with the ring on her right hand, the way the gem glows at her touch gives her some comfort. She keeps a protective hand on it as she continues past the lobby. Joining the small crowd of tourists as they mill about the exhibits, following the colourful signs and heading toward the west wing. 

The display at the room's centre gives her a moment's pause, she knows that necklace.

She doesn’t know these letters. Which is a little odd considering all the ageing pieces of parchment are apparently addressed to her. Or least a version of her that existed several centuries ago. 

Her eyes skim the words all at once, absorbing it all in pieces and fractions. 

_ 11 January 1831 _

_ Dear Kara,  _

_ There is a subject of great importance that I have been avoiding for the duration of our friendship thus far. And now as you make your way back to America I feel it is a good time to be truthful with you. I can not bear to keep it in my heart anymore. I must confess that my feelings for you surpass that which is appropriate for the relationship we have worked to build and rebuild together-  _

_ 13 February 1831 _

_ Dearest Kara, _

_ It is very difficult to express the great storm of emotions within me with just the written word. I wish dearly I’d had the bravery to speak to you whilst you were still on matching soils. I have regrettably left this to long and now I overflow with feeling I must express- _

_ 20 February 1831 _

_ My dearest Kara, _

_ If I may have the privilege to refer to you as such. And if I may be so forward as to refer to you as such. It has been less than two weeks since your departure from your stay with me and the longer time stretches the more I wish desperately for you to still be by my side. It pains me to have to confess such wants to you over something as impersonal as the written word. I do wish I could have told you in person but regrettably for all my years it seems bravery has escaped me. Perhaps it is because I know in my mind that the depth of my feelings will be unrequited to a creature as beautiful and kind as you-  _

_ 22 June 1831 _

_ Kara,  _

_ A cowardice creature am I.  _

_ I must confess to you my darling, that this is only the most recent in my attempts to write this letter, others remain unsent in the envelopes to you. I hold hope that I may feel a surge of courage one day to present them to you. It seems that each time I am faced with the possibility of revealing myself I am stopped, regardless of the method. I miss you terribly, the short period of your absence has hurt me more than I ever could have anticipated. I curse the sea for separating us so- _

They continue on and on for pages. Each letter a renewed confession, a continued admonishment of the previous attempt, all of them written in the same beautiful cursive. They illustrate months of turmoil, of pain and of suffering, all of it going unnoticed and unheard by Kara. To think all of this had been buried in the woods near her home. 

Everything that Kara is, is so zeroed in on the papers in front of her that looking up makes the room spin around her. Tears stinging and breath stuck, she backs away from it all, eyes locking onto the glowing green gemstone at the centre of the necklace that lies with it all. It seems to blink up at her. Glowing brighter her undivided attention, taunting her in a shade of green that has haunted her most personal dreams. So drawn in to the visual that she fails to sense how the space has emptied. 

There’s a cold change to the room around her, the presence of a witness serving to jolt her from her trance, breaking eye contact with the artefact but hesitant to turn around to the shadow behind her. 

“I never received any of these.” Kara keeps her back to the figure in the corner, she knows who’s there.

“I never sent them.” A voice lifts out from the shadows.

“Why wouldn’t you-“ Kara turns to the woman in the darkest corner of the room, “200 years Lena.” The brunette steps into the light. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“We were on such fragile ground together at the time, and you were so far from me. In as many ways as that word defines.” Lena sighs, inching herself forward unable to stop herself from seeking the comfort of the woman across from her. “By the time we saw each other again, it all felt too big to bridge. Everything had already been buried.”

Lena halts her approach at the visible tremble in Kara’s hands at her steps back to create distance. They enter an unintentional standoff, each woman either side the room. The chest now between them, open and raw and mocking. Casting a shadow over their past. All the things Lena never said spelled out and violently public. 

The teeter on the knife’s edge. Remembering the nature of the being she’s talking to, Kara looks to the window above them, letting the sun beat in. Lena removes herself from its rays in a pained sidestep. Perhaps in the light of day isn’t the best environment to have this conversation. Lena’s arm turning an alarming shade of red seems as good a sign as any that this conversation can wait. What’s another couple of hours to two immortals and 200 years of unsaid words? 

“You’re injured.” Kara states stepping forward, hand outstretched towards Lena. The brunettes cradles the burn, stepping back.

“I’m fine.” 

“It’s too dangerous for you to be here right now.” Kara tries her best to not sound like she’s admonishing her. “Why don’t we… why don’t we meet somewhere else?” she suggests, voice quiet. A tradition long forgotten between them pops into Kara’s mind, she hopes that Lena remembers the reference. “There’s too much here to talk in daylight.” Lena doesn’t look at her, eyebrows drawn and curling in on herself as her arm visibly blisters. 

“Kara, I’m fine.” Her point is emphasised with a poorly written wince, Kara fears her stubbornness will be the death of her, she refrains from rolling her eyes at her old friend. Not the time. 

“Don’t do this,” she pleads instead. “Don’t hurt yourself to prove a point.” Kara opens her arms in a sweeping gesture stepping closer and fighting to keep her voice level. 

“I’m not-“

“-then let me meet you later.” Lena’s eyes snap up her tone, fangs just peeking out from her lips but no real fight to her eyes. Kara doesn’t back down, looking into eyes she hasn’t seen in decades. 

Lena concedes, head low and backing herself back to the safety of the shadow. There's a long moment that she does nothing, just looking at Kara. There was once a time when Kara felt like she could read the brunette like an open book, but as she searches her eyes now she realises that she knows nothing anymore. Lena disappears into the dark. Kara stays and shuffles her feet, the letters still spread out before her. 

———

The streetlamp outside her homestead has been upgraded since she was last here, brushed grey metal swooping high and industrial above her head. Moths dance around the bulb as Kara waits, the town in its quietest hour of night. 

The light flickers as the cloaked silhouette approaches, Kara hides her smirk with her hand. In all these years at least Lena Luthor has never lost her flair for the dramatic. She supposes she has a reputation to uphold. There’s a deja vu to the way that Lena removes her hood, the action transporting Kara back to older times. When the lamp above them was still a simple candle, when situations were simpler, or at least what Kara believed was simple. She’s not so sure anymore. 

Neither of them speak for a long moment, the air thick and awkward, where do they even start? Lena looks away out and back down the hill over the lights of the town below them. “I never thought I would return to this place.” She sighs. 

“I never thought I’d leave, each time I think too much I find another reason to stay.” Kara smiles hoping her tone can at least do something to break the tension, leaning against the post, trying to be casual but feeling stiff. 

“I’d thought I’d lost everything that kept me here.” Lena still won’t look at her, sad eyes fixed to the horizon. Radiating the aura of a woman who’s lived too many lifetimes to feel any different. 

“That can’t be true.” Kara tries, surely her memory has tricked her. “You left long before I did.”

There’s a look in Lena’s eyes like she’s missing the point. Kara’s smile falls at the realisation, had Lena honestly thought she’d lost her? The light flickers above them and Kara looks out over the town, sleeping and quiet. “Is anything- those letters… is any of that still true?” Her voice wobbles as she asks, swallowing over the lump in her throat and hating the squeak in her own voice. Lena pulls her gaze from the view, the eye contact as warm as a sunrise. 

“Of course it is.” Lena exhales, Kara turns herself fully to face the brunette.

“Then maybe, we could both stay this time.” Kara offers smiling as Lena brightens.

There is no embrace, no further discussion, just a leisurely walk side by side, hands brushing under a steadily changing sky, all the running finally ceasing. Exhausted Kara reaches out taking a cold hand in her own, lacing their fingers. There’s been enough confessions, emotions, and turmoil for one night. 

After all, They have all the time in the world to get where they’re going. 

**Author's Note:**

> Based off a tumblr post. Couldn't resist making it supercorp. Wanted to post something small before I start another chaptered work. 
> 
> Tumblr: Justamessatthispoint


End file.
